Nemo : Tale of the Owl
by Windra
Summary: My life was a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare. I offer you now the insight of a monster born into a world that did not want her ... my life as the Soul Reaver of Earth. [ReferencesCameos of other series.] [OC]
1. Prologue

Nemo : Tale of the Owl  
**Prologue  
_- Windra -_**

* * *

My life ...

How can one go about describing my life? It wasn't easy, that was for sure. From the beginning I was shunned. In the end I was seen as an equal. The path between those two climaxes was anything but rose-laden. My journey was long, hard, and filled with thorns that poked and prodded from underneath the dirt. No, I am not fond of the memories I hold. I would rather forget them, but to do so would lose a vital piece of who I am ... and what has shaped me into what I became.

Physically, I became something that I'm quite certain would draw ridicule from your voice and revulsion from your heart. I stand at five feet, five inches. Not very tall, not very short. I have short brown hair that ends at the tip of my chin. My bangs are wonky as shit - in an act of gravity defiance, the right side of my bangs shoots up and then hangs low to conceal my right eyes, which is covered by a thick black bandage: invisible to a world which it would not be able to see anyway. A smaller arching lock hangs over my left eye, a brilliant green speckled with deep emerald. Though a night-dweller, my skin is tan. I think that might have to do with my heritage, but we'll get to my lineage eventually ... like in the next chapter. Or would that be the first chapter? Anyway, I digress ... and I hear the Fourth Wall breaking. That wouldn't be too fun.

My dresswear is something you might see from the acclaimed iNaruto/i series. Do you recall the ichuunins/i and those thick vests they wore, with the collars that stretched upwards to conceal their necks? I have one of those, except it's char black instead of forest green. It's also made from Kevlar - bullet-resistant material is godly, in my opinion. Underneath the vest is a midnight-hued tee-shirt which, like the vest, only goes to just above my waist. That means I get to show off my oh-so-sexy belly button to the world ... whoo-hoo!

_[Wolf whistle._

Ahem ...

Complete with black zip-off slacks (they are loose and comfortable, ideal for mobility in tight situations), black armbands, black headband, and black bandages wrapped about my ankles, I look like some sort of martial artist. That's not far from the truth. You see, I specialize in taijitsus - hand-to-hand combat fighting. I could kick your ass.

Nonetheless, I sound like I look like a normal human being, right?

Wrong.

To my original appearance, add a few more details. These include:

- Razor sharp teeth.  
- Dragon's feet (silver in color) complete with thick triad digits and alabaster claws.  
- A dragon tail (also silver) that stretches for about five feet and is tipped with a jagged yellow spade broken from an incident long ago.

Put simply, I'm a freak. I guess it's kind of fitting, considering that I've been viewed as a _nayee_ since I was born over five centuries in the past. However, the half-dragon appearance only came recently. For nearly five hundred years, I was thought of as a devil for a different reason. Why? What for? The answer is simple.

Humans are a strange species ...

They fear what they do not understand.

And they despise what they fear.

Even if what they're afraid of sheds just as much blood and tears, happiness and joys, as them. It's a little something we call discrimination. I, like others who were born in situations familiar to my own, was the bane of existence and the scorn of society. From the beginning to the end, I am and will always be the monster.


	2. Chapter One

Nemo : Tale of the Owl  
**Chapter One  
_- Windra -_**

****

* * *

****

Night cloaked the eternity of the wilderness that would forever be Maine. Only the stars rushed out to greet the blackened sky, gracing the atmosphere with an ethereal glow that seemed almost too surreal to be tangible. Night hawks and owls called out in their deadly chimes, announcing their hunting parties as they tore from branches to dive at helpless mice scurrying to find shelters from their aerial assassins. Crickets deafened the ensuing noise of terrified rodents with the peaceful resolutions of mingled songs, piercing the world with a gentle choir. Shadows flicked between bushes, pausing once or twice to look over their furred shoulders only to go dashing off like mad again: silent as the clouds that passed low overhead, flickering with an occasionally limelight of a lightning bolt. A storm was approaching. It would hit before dawn arrived within less than two hours.

Two figures rushed along the dusty earth of Maine in late October. Judging by their varying gaits and patterns of running, one could easily identify that of the strangers was a man and a woman, both apparently middle-ages according to their height and weight proportions. The male was well-built and scantily clad in little more than a loincloth. Facial attributes were hidden from the world due to the darkness, but his long hair caught the moon's glow and shone with auburn tint before vanishing into onyx. The female was slightly shorter. She was donned in something of a ceremonial garb that stretched to her ankles and was stained with blood. Her complexion was far from fair - she was paler than a ghost and wane: the walking image of mother Death in all her glory. How she managed to stand with the exhaustion etched in every wrinkle upon her gaunt face was anybody's guess.

A bundle was within her arms, thickly wrapped. It could have been mistaken for nothing more than a loaf of bread had it not been uttering muted whispers and gargled cries every few seconds. A baby carried with ill manner and lack of care.

Blades of grass bent with the passing gusts of the two humanoids. The man was swifter, quickly overcoming and passing up his partner-in-crime. He looked as though he were running in terror from an area of a bad history. Staggering in her step, the woman called out after him with a thick voice choked with angst. "Ch-Chayton!" was her raspy shout, ending with a hacking cough.

Chayton paused long enough for his friend to catch up. When she was within arm's distance, she grabbed her into a loving embrace and led her forth, allowing her to lean upon his bare chest for support. "Come, Orenda. We're almost there."

Orenda was shaking her head. Every inch of her shuddered with violent gasps for breath. "I cannot ... "

"Hold on, my love ... "

Catering to the need to be comforted, Orenda furthered herself into Chayton's grip. She crushed the baby between two bodies, ignoring the stifled yelp of shock and lack of oxygen originating from the newborn. "I should not have bore this monster ... ," hissed she into the ear of her lover with malice dripping from each word like acid. "Look ... what she has done to me ... "

"_It_ is a burden we will soon bear no longer, my Orenda-love. Look, we are almost there - the ocean leads the way!" He clutched her tightly, sweetly oblivious to the choking child even as it squirmed against his vulnerable skin.

Indeed the sea was the barer of good news for them. A roaring Atlantic smashed along the coastline to their left. Mist rolled up from the shore only to dissipate further into the sky, joining the clouds in a dance of ever-ether. Further beyond, just past a stretch of aged maples and pines, was a small settlement of tents carved from wood with leather, animal hides, and leaves stretched over them in the formation of secure roofs. The village was locked in sleep - not one light shone; not one body moved aside from their own. Orenda's sigh of relief turned into a swift gasp of pain. She doubled over, clutching at her abdomen with a yelp. The bundle dropped from her grip. It smashed into the earth headlong, sending the baby girl rolling, naked, onto the soil as limp as a rag doll. Cheyton helped his spouse rather than his seed, which he surveyed with scorn rather than concern of terror. Moments passed until the baby girl began to gargle and squirm, miraculously undamaged by the fall. Miraculously for the child, perhaps, but not for the parents who looked like they'd hoped the impact would have killed her.

"The village ... " Ordena's whisper was too faint to be heard by the human ear, but Cheyton caught the words and cupped her chin before she could take another step.

"Nature gave her to us. Nature will take her away." Nodding towards the infant, Cheyton scooped up his mate in his strong arms and stalked off into the night. He paused once to look over his shoulder like the many foxes scurrying about the location. One might imagine for a moment that he was feeling some remorse for his actions and was beginning to hesitate. In actuality he was hoping, as he vanished into the depths of oblivion, that one of those foxes might carry the baby girl off.

He looked back no longer. Cheyton and Orenda kept moving even as their next-of-kin began to cry into a world where she would not be accepted, unheard by even the most keen ear.


	3. Chapter Two

Nemo : Tale of the Owl  
**Chapter Two  
_- Windra -_**

****

* * *

****

_Adsila ..._

Wakanda's first breath came out in a long drawl. She cupped the skeletal fragments in her palms, offering a rough shake before casting them upon the table like die in a game of Monopoly. The minuscule bird vertebrae, beak bones, and talons strewn across the wooden fixture with a loud rising clatter that echoed throughout a house that was far from empty. It was with a dull green eye that the woman watched the landing patterns the bone pieces assumed after the chuck: emerald blinked at the formation - a good omen, to be sure, but there was no smile gracing her aged features. Behind the eye patch, the blind right eye blinked excessively: demanding light and sight that it would never be graced with again. Wakanda stretched an emaciated fingertip to prod at a lonely shard of hummingbird skull. The cartilage rolled under her touch and fell to its side like a victim touched by the hand of Death himself. Slow exhalation of carbon: Wakanda sighed, furthering the travel of the broken fragment by tipping it over a second time. The woman pitched forward, supporting her chin with her hands while resting elbows upon the wooden table carved from the finest, tallest, and oldest of pine trees. She'd had the bit of furniture for over fifty years. For Wakanda, it was a grim reminder of her age and weakness.

Gods ... She was only fifty-nine years old. How long had it been since she was pronounced a Shaman for the Mimiteh Tribe village? Wakanda had to blink at the deer-hide coated ceiling to ponder that inquiry. Ah yes, she'd become a mystic at the tender age of nine; before she even entered the stage of adulthood that everybody grew to love and hate at the same time. Youth had not held back Wakanda's special prowess for reading what could not be read by other people. Spiritual energies, ghosts, good fortunes and ill-begotten desires ... Wakanda could see everything from the faintest flicker of ethereal energy to massive gatherings of ghosts from across the globe during All Hallow's Eve, which would take place tonight no less. She was inducted instead of claimed as a voluntary kid - forced into this manner of business and future-prophesizing by no her own choice, but the choice of her elders and superiors together. Wakanda looked the part of a mystic fifty years down the road. With her bony features (she looked as though she had starved herself, when in reality it was simply the natural lithe frame of her body), ratty gray hair that flowed from scalp to the small of her back in long locks and deep curls, sallow face, long nose, and claw-like nails, she appeared to be more of a witch than a maiden of the Fates. A jagged scar worked its way up the nape of her chin to just below her left eyebrow. Her gown of deepest gold was so loose upon her body that it hung like a draping rag. Its coloration matched that of the ribboned armband tied to her left forearm and the bandanna coating her forehead. Her skin held a slightly yellow glow to it and her eyes catered to the pouches just beneath them. She was sick - her illness was as evident as the day was bright. For the last year and a half she had been dying. Wakanda's health wavered bit by struggling bit, but it was not from a common illness. Her immune system, Wakanda deciphered not so long ago, was failing miserably. Any viral or other bacterium that flew her way was caught in an instant.

_Adsila ..._

It hadn't always been like this. At one point in time Wakanda had been a healthy middle-aged woman with a lot to live for. But when Adsila died ... When Adsila died, everything went to Hell for the woman. The elder Shaman placed her palms at the edge of the table and gave a shove. She tipped backwards in her chair, the only good eye she had closing in a moment of stark recollection.

_My daughter ..._

With glorious brown locks and blazing green eyes, Adsila had been the spitting image of her mother during her years as a child. By some freak chance Adsila had not inherited Wakanda's curse and was thus free to be who she was and what she wanted, when and where, without the High Council calculating her every move for her. Aloof in demeanor and unnaturally high-spirited, Adsila had been the bright spot for many of the people in town. Neighbors adored her for the charming light she gave off: the way everybody got happy whenever she was nearby, as though all of their troubles and sorrows had dissipated into a world of make-believe where nothing could go wrong. So many children followed her like a flock of eager geese seeking a leader for the long migration south. Adsila loved it. She became the teacher for the young where their parents had failed them. Nature was on of the subjects she taught them. Adsila made them learn how to survive in the wilderness by showing them what kinds of berries could and could not be eaten, how to make fires, how to tell what direction they were going based on the stars and the growth of moss on aging trees.

Adsila was everything a mother could want. Wakanda and her held a relationship that stretched beyond the confines of the universe. It was a bond that could not be broken or at least not by them. But finally even their limits were tested. Yellow fever rampaged through the Village and claimed many a victim. Adsila was one of them and Wakanda had never been the same since. The death of her only child brought down a world of grief upon her.

_Adsila ..._

Wrinkled eyelids cracked open to survey everything that was above and around her. The ceiling was laced with brilliant tools of oblong shapes and sizes. Nothing was ordinary. There were hooks and claws and gadgets that didn't seem natural nor humane; weapons and ceremonial items that would be rattled at the sky while prancing about the traditional fires of Destiny. Sun-dried bird and rodent carcasses hung from leather straps, their bodies clanking together with a breeze that did not exist. Those subjects would become useful during Wakanda's multiple rituals involving fortune-telling and sight-Seeing. Cages lines the walls, along with a wild assortment of flowers and pots and pans that would make any Martha Stuart fan green with envy. For such a small hut, this place was filled with color and clutter - so much that it would have seemed impossible to have room to walk around in had Wakanda not devised a little pathway through the junk.

A tired emerald oculi surveyed the mess with little thought other than her own faded memories. A sigh escaped pursed lips. Wakanda scooped up the bones scattered about the table. A leather pouch sat at her side. She took and emptied the contents of her hands into it. Next she procured a small pipe from her person and lit it with a bit of flint lying haphazardly on a stack of papers to her right. A couple puffs of clove was all it took to ease her mind into a heavier state of euphoria. Smoke filled her lungs - instant cancer, but she who was miserable did not worry about little things like that. The Shaman exhaled, breathing slow and methodically. Her eyes slammed shut for a moment only to open again ... and blink in surprise at the sight bestowed upon her.

The smoke from the exit-wound of her pipe tapered into the atmosphere but did not immediately dissipate. Instead it took the form of something large and feathered. The placement of the beak and the round head furthered the detail of this strange smoke creature. An owl? A barn owl? The image fluttered out of view when Wakanda blew on it. She tried again, blowing heavily into the air with thick smog. Again appeared _Tyto alba_, clearer this time. It lasted a few moments longer. Then it finally faded into nothing.

Narrowing a green eyes, the Shaman wondered about the chances of such a vision. She also wondered what it could mean. Owls were largely considered bad omens. They symbolized horrid forthcomings: night, death, darkness and all that lurks within the confines of midnight. _What is coming, my Gods?_ she questioned nothing.

Suddenly a loud clamoring cry rose from outside. The Shaman snuffed out her pipe and placed it on the table; she was already on her feet when a rat-tat-tapping sounded at the wooden plank outside her door. Wakanda swung about in time to witness a young man in his early teens clad in warrior garb and clutching a quiver pile through the leather strip separating her dominion from the rest of the world. The lad was out of breath. He struggled for air even as Wakanda approached.

"What is it?" she called out, voice sharp and tact.

"Lady Wakanda ... !" Dipping into a bow made awkward by his lack of oxygen, the boy gasped, "Your presence is requested ... in the Village Square ... "

Judging by his actions, Wakanda understood that something ill was afoot. She waved a dismissive hand towards him and nodded. "Thank you, young Ishen. Inform them that I will be with them shortly. My bones call to me."

Ishen nodded and ducked out of view. A small smile pulled at the corners of Wakanda's face. She turned towards the leather pouch with purpose in her stride. "Fate brings a gift of strange to the Village of the Mimiteh Tribe. What could it be, I wonder?" crooned the old woman with an air of mysticism as she pulled the tiny bones into her hands and rattled them together: prepping to roll them like die of the game of Life.

* * *

"Did you see it?"

"That marking! How could it be?"

"Devil be scorned, the thing is a monster!"

"The scorn of Kuro lives!"

"That is a Reaver mark. How did that babe get here?"

"Don't be fooled by the appearance: this creature is an abomination!"

Rising in pitch and clumping together like bells in a belfry, the hushed voices of worried Villagers quickly became rushing shouts that merged together in a sloppy hellstorm. The convergence of bodies of all shapes and sizes did not go unnoticed: well over thirty people circling one spot in the midst of the town with more people gathering by the second. Some were naked while others were decked in simple rags and tattered cloths. Still others wore their hunting/gathering garb, complete with bows and arrows and quivers strapped to their backs, along with small, nimble daggers made of obsidian and glass tied to their hips with long bits of thread and rope. The variances in their skin tone and hair color alone were enough to display their wide array of background and genetics. A few things, at least, held them in common with one another. Most of the Villagers - elders and middle-agers, typically - wore masks of terrified horror while the children and younger versions of their parents simply stared on, trying to make sense of something they couldn't quite comprehend. Newborns cried in the arms of their mothers and fathers, disliking the mush of catcalls and crows as much as sensitive-eared felines.

"We should kill it now, while there is still a chance!" proclaimed one of the multitudes. He swung an axe into the air with a battle pose and a fierce posture.

"I second that! We have no _idea_ what this could bode for us!" shouted a second. Though female and dressed accordingly, the vocalist wavered a club with stark viciousness. A cold, calculating gleam crossed her eyes.

"We will do no such thing until Lady Wakanda has laid witness!"

A hush fell across the crowd. Everybody turned slowly, their backs shifting to take in the sight of the baby wrapped in blanket on the dirt-covered road while their eyes traced after a triad of men approaching their crude circle. Heads bowed out of respect. Weapons were lowered to sides with each gait from the three strangers who looked to have walked from the very Halls of Time, for they were aged beyond belief. The first was short and round. His nose was crooked and his skin was white-washed, mottled here and there by patches of pale tan. All that remained of his silver hair was a single curl that cascaded down the length of his nose. Tall and lanky, the second was the exact opposite. His hue was much darker, as though at some point in the past he'd been thrown into the sun and made it out alive, but terribly charred. Blood red eyes stared out from the chocolate of his body, coinciding with the fading crimson wisps that draped from his scalp. The third of the group was the most balanced. Slightly pot-bellied but with enough muscle to cast aside the small flaw, his skin held a yellowish glow. Black stripes wrapped around his arms, legs, torso, and thighs. His eyes were black and beady with multiple points of light within the pupils - a distinct hornet-like appearance. Perhaps that was why his name was Hesutu, which roughly translated to _"yellow jacket nest rising out of the ground"_.

Looking down at her feet in shame, the woman with the club in the air backed away with shame. "Of course, Chief Hesutu ... I meant nothing by my exclamation ... "

The chocolate-hide man waved a hand about dismissively. "Your attitude is entirely understood. We do not appreciate this unprecedented event any more than you do."

"As Kuruk evasively said," announced the pudgy man with a hoarse voice, nodding towards the being with red eyes, "the appearance of a future Soul Reaver is a bad omen upon this Village. We would be better off without her here but - "

"But nothing, Hassun!" snapped Hesutu. His eyes held a fire unsurpassed by any in the far-from-little congregation. "We will not do a thing until Wakanda has deemed a necessary course of action. She is our, how would you say, adviser. To go about without following her advice would reflect badly on us all, in more ways than one." He stepped forth with a stride that held more weight with seriousness than the god Horus. "Who found the child?" inquired he as he came upon the wrapped bundle, now at the tip of his toes. He stared down with a frown, every wrinkle displaying disgust.

A young woman no older than twenty stepped from the fray. Long golden locks spilled across her back in magnificent curls. Baby blues held a sheen of sorrow, thickly masked by the aloofness she disposed and the glow of her skin. "I did," she muttered in a low, solemn voice echoing regret.

"What happened?"

The girl fidgeted under Chief Hesutu's penetrating gaze. "I ... you see, I was out with my basket. I was about to pick some daisies from the hill - I love to do that every day one hour before the sun rises from the horizon and I wanted to get it done as quickly as possible because the wind was picking up and a storm was on the way - when I found this ... baby ... lying on the soil carelessly. She - it - was crying so vigorously and looked so alone ... I wondered why it was there and where the parents were and went to pick her up. I-I wrapped her in a cloth and saw ... ," she gave a long pause, " ... the mark. On her back. Between the shoulder blades. The Reaver Unlucky Seven."

"How long ago was this?" interrogated Kuruk.

"About fifteen minutes, sir. I rose the alarm upon the discovery. People began to gather and ... well, here we are."

Hesutu's grimace deepened. He tapped the child, still sobbing but muted from the passing of time (and there were no more tears to be shed) with the tip of his toes. "I hope Wakanda is able to come up with a good solution. A sacrifice - "

"Is not needed," announced the aged female. She came up from between two tents, walking up to the rest of them haggardly. Everybody within the circle, even the chief of the village, watched as she arrived. Wakanda bowed as she entered the eclipse. She stopped beside Hesutu, gave him a scornful look in reprimand for his actions of 'kicking' the baby, and bent low to scoop the child into her arms. The rebellious actions were so deviant that many spectators shrunk back in revulsion with gasps. Hesutu was not immune.

"Wakanda, what are you - "

"I will raise her as my own."

More gasps. The chief's frown became an open scowl. "Unthinkable!"

Offering him a gaze that showed lack of concern, Wakanda blinked. "Is it so?"

"You know well what risks we would take in bringing this child into our abode! Kuro is not a force to be reckoned with, even with the powers of the Mimiteh Tribe. Our special blood would do nothing against his brutality! All the evolution in the world would not stop the wrath he and his Shadowfolk could incur upon us!"

"I have read the bones," retorted Wakanda airily. She waved a hand, passing off the anger directed towards her. "This child will be the bearer of a great burden in the future. She will be a worthy ally if treated accordingly. Very powerful - stronger than even Kuro, I surmise, given time." The generalized silence made the Shaman smile gently. "I will take her in as one of my own, raise her to be - "

But she stopped dead The baby had just opened her eyes, wincing in the light but catching the glow. Brilliant emerald met its faded counterpart. Wakanda's face screwed up into something unreadable. She brushed a solitary tear from the baby's cheek.

"Such lovely eyes ... " It came out as little more than a whisper. Hesutu had to strain to hear what was said. "You want her dead, I understand that." The Shaman's orbs locked suddenly with Hesutu's pits. "But that will not be so. I decree that she should not be killed."

"Wakanda - "

"Such lovely, big eyes." Wakanda tapped the little girl's nose. The bundle giggled, swatting at the emaciated hand and grabbing a forefinger in the process. "I think I shall call you ... Naira. It means _'big eyes'_, you know."

The baby genuinely smiled. For the first time in a very long while, so did Wakanda.


End file.
